fighting you was the hardest thing i've ever done
by pepperpepperoni
Summary: She's trying her best not to look at him, but she does anyway and it kills both of them. Every relationship is complicated, especially if you're Hermione and Draco.


**love is the language of the young**

She's trying her best not to look at him, but she does anyway and it kills both of them.

He pretends that he doesn't notice, that she's not digging herself inside his poor broken heart, that she's still the same enemy that he's not allowed to talk to. He focuses instead on Pansy's mundane tales about her new job at a local library because it's after The War and Merlin knows that people like them are desperate to take anything handed to them.

Draco doesn't know why _she's_ here and, if he's being honest, he doesn't want to know.

"Theo's trying to help me, but I feel like I can do this, you know?" Pansy sighs to her drink. He nods in comfort because that's the only thing he can do. He's sympathetic, of course, but _goddammit_ , why does _she_ have to be here? Now, he's desperately trying to keep his eyes on Pansy or on the distinct wooden table they're leaning against or even the cheesy bolded quotes on the walls—'it's better to pick passion over comfort' and 'choose whatever makes you happy.' Anywhere but on the woman that recently entered the bar.

Pansy glances at her bland used wristwatch before prompting, "I need to go home. I can't leave my husband alone with our child. He's bloody useless at parenting."

"Of course," Draco replies breezily. He wishes she'll stay longer because then he has to endure the blatant stares over his direction and eventually the consequences of it. Still, he doesn't stop Pansy when she waves goodbye and steps out of the dim-lit Muggle bar.

He drowns the whiskey in his hand.

"Draco." Her voice is sweet and smooth, soft and angelic, beautiful and raw. He wants to hate it, but he can't. He can't ever hate anything about her.

He looks up at the woman in front of him. Same kind brown eyes, same bushy brown hair, same ink and parchment smell. He wants to scowl, but even that's impossible if she's here. Everything is impossible with Hermione Granger. Instead, he nods without a word.

"We need to talk," she starts, her calloused hands gripping on the edge of the table.

He finds himself laughing bitterly and all gloves come off. He feels like his teenage self again: always cold, always ruthless, always spoiled. With a sneer, he asks, "What do _we_ have to talk about?"

"Draco," she pleads. He almost cracks, but not even the way her eyes melt with sorrow will make him say sorry. She notices this and sighs, "I'm sorry."

"You don't mean it," he immediately says, because every sorry that he has heard is never meant. Not when you grow up as a Malfoy.

"I _do_ ," she insists. "Draco, please, will you stop being so paranoid?"

He knows that she knows the answer to the question. He never stops being paranoid, not when his own father brings him down with his expectations for perfection, not when his own house that used to be his safe zone turned into a dark chamber of torture, not when he's groomed to be a machine that's a menace to society, and certainly not when he has witnessed the Dark Lord so much that it never leaves his nightmares even during on his better days. So, Draco chooses not to reply.

Hermione gives him _the_ look. A look of pity, empathy, and sorrow all rolled into one. He hates it, yet he thrives in it. It's comfort, understanding, and endearing all that he used to wish for during the cold dark days.

"You shouldn't be here," he bites, but it's not an insult as much as it is a compliment. It's a fact.

"I want to be here," she replies.

"You'll leave again."

"I won't."

He sighs. She keeps her eyes on him, the same eyes that he's all too familiar with now, the same eyes that he'd always see in the darkness of his room, or in the warmth of a Saturday afternoon, or even in the random corners of Diagon Alley. Worst of all is that he will always see those eyes when he closes his own, helping him drift off into a deep quiet slumber.

"I don't want to explain myself," Draco starts again.

"Then don't." Hermione tells him, honestly, unabashedly, adamantly.

So, they stand in silence, Draco staring at his empty shot glass because he can't look at her and Hermione staring at him because she can never look away. If it does bother him, he doesn't say anything not does his face ever twitch in opposition.

Finally, he looks up to her. For a moment, he hesitates talking at all, but it's Hermione and even if they're sailing in rough waters now, he will always tell her everything. He shifts his weight from his right leg to his left before speaking, "I think we should tell them."

She breathes sharply, but she nods anyway and responds, "Okay."

"You don't want to," he observes, watching her eyes as they collide emotions against emotions, ideas against ideas, opinions against opinions.

"I want to." Hermione conveys, "But they're not exactly the most accepting of people."

"Bullshit," he voices out. " _We're_ not the most accepting of people."

She glares at him because they've had this conversation before and it always ends with Hermione insisting that he's not as bad as he thinks he is, while he grunts back in reply because he knows that replying is useless when it comes to a person like Hermione Granger who had fervently fought for House-elves' rights and the eventual disintegration of blood purity.

"The point is," she struggles, trying not to shift the conversation, "they're like family to me and it's not like you had the friendliest relationship with them."

"I get it," he cuts off because he truly does. He doesn't elaborate anymore because he's just tired and, even though he's heard her reason thousands of times, he's still bitter and angry and everything that he hates about himself. He hates talking with this much contempt to Hermione, but he knew deep in his mind that this was inevitable.

"Draco," she pleads because she knows what he's trying to do.

"I said I get it!" He snarls, "I understand everything, Hermione. You want to be completely unfair and keep me as your little secret? _Fine_. But I'm completely done; whatever _this_ is—it's over."

" _Draco_ ," she repeats again, more insistent, more desperate. She reaches out for him but he's already moving, turning his back on the girl who has broken his heart far too many times for him too count. He tries not to hear her tears, or her hiccups, or her minuscule breaths as he leaves the bar because it's already too much for him to handle and too much for her to fix.

* * *

The first time Draco met Hermione post Hogwarts was in a secluded Muggle bookstore right beside his apartment. He held his cruel remarks and she held her snappy tongue as they weaved through the fiction section, talking about Jane Austen and Gabriel García Márquez and all the other authors Draco had become accustomed to after Hogwarts. She started sprouting the tropes she loved in books (underdogs, unlikely heroes, the eventual moral values learned at the end, and etc.), while he rebuked with his own (character redemptions, dystopian, the snappy realization of life's cruelty, and etc.), and how even back then he couldn't help but laugh how everything she loved was exactly what _she_ was.

"What's so funny?" she had glared lightly when he _did_ laugh.

"We're too predictable," was all he replied.

The first time Draco kissed Hermione was a Friday morning in the National Gallery, in front of a Monet painting and a number of curious (and apprehensive) glances towards their direction. She had been explaining to him why she loved how bright his art was while he had been staring at her with soft, dazed eyes, and when she looked back at him with the same brightness of Monet's paintings, he felt his heart hammer ridiculously.

And then he kissed her.

He did not know how he was able to close the short distance that had always been present in every single one of their so-called 'outings.' But he did and he would be forever thankful. Her lips had responded immediately and he could feel the smooth curve of her upper lip and the warmth of her breath mingled with his. He swiped his tongue over her lower lip and she shivered, so he pulled her even closer; his arms snaking over her waist and her fingers tangled in his soft hair.

Someone coughed in their ears and they pulled back from each other, blushing all over. They had laughed about it hours later in Draco's beige couch, hands intertwined together and soft stolen glances of each other.

The first time they made love to each other was in Draco's flat, exactly one week after Hermione's impromptu trip with Kingsley Shacklebot to Scotland. She fled immediately to the comfort of his arms and gave her such a steamy kiss that made his knees buckle and his mouth moan with pleasure. He had peppered her with soft kisses on her neck, muttering a series of 'I missed you' and 'you feel so good' and 'I love you.'

They didn't even make it past his bedroom's door before they're completely stripped, grunting and moaning against each other's mouths.

He describes it as 'made love' because Hermione is too precious and exhilarating for him to describe it with a word as simple and uninteresting as 'shagged.' When he told her this the morning after in between giggles and streams of sunlight on their bed, she gave him a dazzling smile and agreed.

* * *

She uses the Floo powder and arrives at his flat in the wee hours of the morning. Her eyes are bloodshot and there's red under her nose, so he immediately assumes (slash that, _knows_ ) that she was crying. If it's possible, her bushy hair has become even bushier and her clothes messier. He regrets not blocking the fireplace, but he knows deep inside that he had been hoping that she'd appear in his flat and they'd finally fix this argument and he'd kiss her until she could see stars and everything would be in perfect place. He realizes that he's counting his chickens before they lay their eggs, so he stops thinking at all.

"What do you need, Hermione?" Draco asks, leaning against the same beige couch that faces the fireplace. He's brooding in his dark clothes in a darker room with no lights and closed curtains, hands clasped together and his usually neat platinum blonde hair in an apparent mess.

Sniffing, Hermione softly admits, "You're right, Draco. I'm being unfair."

He doesn't speak so she continues, "I thought that if we don't tell anyone, we can continue this without anyone pressuring us from the outside. I'm already being hounded with journalists every day, and I know how you feel about being in the spotlight. If no one knows, then no one will talk."

He scoffs. With a quick glare, he blurts out, "Just tell me the truth, Hermione. _You're_ ashamed of me."

"That's not—" she protests immediately.

"You think we shouldn't do this because you're afraid of your friends' reactions. _You're_ the one who's afraid of the cameras, and the future Minister really shouldn't associate with a lowly former Death Eater." Draco vents out. He's standing now, a few feet from Hermione, his arms on his hips and his legs pacing back-and-forth. Then, his eyes are cold and ruthless and so distant that Hermione inhales sharply. She stares at him with glassy eyes and a trembling mouth, unable to speak. She doesn't attempt to defend herself, so he finally growls, "Get the fuck out of my flat, Granger."

She snaps out of whatever reverie she's in. " _No_."

"I'm not going to ask again," he warns.

"Then don't, because I'm not leaving," she replies back just as fiercely.

They stare at each other down for the longest time, unwavering, bold, and determined. He's grumbling under his breath and she's knitting her eyebrows with anger, but they still do not speak to each other. After all, their eyes seem to be holding a conversation of their own. He's scowling and she still looks like she's about to cry but they don't stop.

Until Hermione blinks and a tear escapes from the corner of her eye.

Draco's immediate instinct is to hold her cheek and wipe the tear with his thumb. He does and when he realizes what he's doing, he averts his hand as if he had just burned himself. She's looking at him through her eyelashes and he avoids her gaze, preferring to look at the pale bland walls in the background.

"I'm sorry," she whispers amidst their awkward silence. "I'm a coward. I don't want them finding out about us because I know they'll disapprove."

He nods curtly at her apology, still unable to look at her. He can tell she's frustrated by this as she immediately grabs his chin to force him to look at her. He's in a state of confusion and embarrassment while she's in a state of bravery and openness. She promises ardently, "I'll tell them about us, Draco. I'm not ashamed of you; I _love_ you."

"Prove it," he dares, despite the situation.

"Okay," she replies just as quickly.

Hermione leaves as Draco feels a passionate tug in his heart and he hates how she's still affecting him despite all this, but knows that he loves it anyway.

* * *

He doesn't sleep so he goes straight to work even if it's two hours before his shift. His boss regards him with a frown, but lets the blonde do his thing anyway, and so Draco weaves through St. Mungo's with a pen and his lime green uniform to busy himself from damning thoughts.

It's an hour past his original shift when a fellow Healer grins at him in the hallway before throwing a fresh Daily Prophet. The Healer teases as he walks away in the opposite direction, "And here I thought you were a closet gay."

Draco rolls his eyes but still opens up the newspaper.

Right below the headlines, he spots the article: _Hermione Granger is in love with a former Death Eater?_ He checks the author and he guffaws right there in the middle of the busy hallway (which earned him some worried looks) because it's from the one and only Rita Skeeter. Draco hurriedly flips to where the rest of the article lies and he almost crumples. Smacked right in the middle of the page is a small moving photo of Draco in the same beige couch with Hermione moving in the picture and resting her body against his intimately. He doesn't know how the picture came to be, but he knows that they look bloody good together and that this picture is going straight on his dresser.

Draco doesn't bother reading the article because it's Rita Skeeter and she's trash and also because he's frantically rushing out of St. Mungo's with a loud _crack_ and into the Ministry of Magic.

He doesn't bother with the glances and glares (mostly glares) at his direction. He just needs to see _her_ right now, tell her what all this meant to him, what _she_ meant to him, and he hates that this bloody lift is taking too long to close the doors and—

The lift dings and he's filing out with a crowd in a hasty run. He's pushing madly against the people, whispering soft sorrys and excuse mes, before he goes straight to where her office is, ignoring the protests of the assistant at the front, and barges in, slamming the wooden door open rightfully so.

She looks up from her desk, her eyes still bloodshot.

"You let Skeeter write her piece," Draco states when her mind has finally caught up that _he's here_ , living and breathing. He's grinning stupidly, and it occurs to him how much his emotions falter and hype around the girl in front of him. He shows off the newspaper he got and exclaims, " _You_ let Skeeter publish the piece from two months ago. Why?"

Hermione gives him a tired smile; clearly he's not the only one who wasn't able to sleep, and replies, "I want you to forgive me."

Draco actually laughs as he nears his desk. He chokes in his laughter but manages to say, "You're an absolute riot, Granger."

She's standing up from her desk and gives him a tentative smile. "Am I forgiven?"

He doesn't say anything because: what else would he say to her? That she's amazing because she allowed her nemesis to publish the story that she threatened them with back then? That she's everything he imagined she'd be when she walked out of his flat with a determined look in her eyes? That she's forgiven because, _Merlin_ , she's so full of spirit and boldness that it makes his heart burst? That, no matter what she fucking says, he'll love her anyway to the point of hell and back?

Hermione smiles softer this time, and he's convinces she's reading his mind.

"Goddammit, Hermione," he mutters, still holding on the ghost of his laugh. She finally lets her face loose and grins back.

With two strides, his lips eventually lock with hers. They're kissing fervently; teeth clashing occasionally, tongues hungrily licking, hands running up and down each other's bodies. Draco's not going to lie: everything about Hermione Granger is intoxicating and he hates how putty he is in her hands, but he knows deep inside that she's putty in his too. They're mumbling through their lips of how much they love each other and how they're unable to keep away from each other for so long.

It's when Harry 'Cockblock' Potter screams in agony five minutes later that they pull away and, even after that, they don't truly take their hands off each other.

* * *

 _"I love you," she shyly admits._

 _He chuckles, "Good. Because_ I've _always loved_ you _."_

* * *

 _end._

 **quick a/n: ooc? yes because it's 2.00 in the morning and i have to finish this because if i sleep ill lose this mojo. hope the story's still okay tho as i feel this is too quick but udashfdhhh. dramione ftw always.**


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